


Professor Layton and the Queensberry Rules

by a_mere_trifle



Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [4]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Drama, Fair play, Gen, Research, campaign strategy, masked antics, tell all the truth (but tell it slant), the rspca has not endorsed the use of hired thugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-11-15 12:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18073745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: A number of corporate and political entities have bought the Prime Minister of England, and Professor Layton is determined to bring the fight to them. The question, in many ways, is-- how?3. Paul's lips twisted. "Knock 'em dead," he said, "and feel free to interpret that as literally as you wish."And Paul was off in a flutter of coat-tails, and Layton was digging through the heavy pockets of his coat. The flasks. The rope. The trove of amulets against the worst-case scenarios. They would be added to as this wore on, he was certain.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually finally getting back properly into writing this year. The trouble is, this particular thing has at least a dozen entry points, and I keep working on the stuff that comes later first...

Layton was prepared to admit that he had a streak of the dramatic. 

Usually, it was a thing he tried to quash. His youthful brushes with drama-- both staged and real-- had left him with a deep and sincere appreciation for the quiet, peaceful life.

And yet, here he was. A mild-mannered professor who spent more time gallivanting around the countryside on mad adventures than he did in the classroom. One whose knowledge of improvised weaponry was, unfortunately, more up-to-date and categorical than his knowledge of Etruscan pottery. Was it really all coincidence, events conspiring against him? Or did something in him enjoy it, crave it? There was a seductive satisfaction in a well-timed denouement; a dark compelling rhythm to the moves of a duel; a gratifying superiority in solving a case or saving a life (or a world; how much difference was there?); a draining excitement to a rush of adrenaline. It probably held more sway over him then he would ever be able to admit.

Sitting on a windowsill in a dark room left one with a great deal of time for self-reflection.

But there was the noise he had been waiting for; a footstep in the hall. The steps drew closer; the door opened. The man stepped in, loosened his tie, felt for the lightswitch.

"Hello, Bill," said Layton.

He was a short man; it was unfortunate Layton couldn't accurately measure, because he thought it was sincerely possible the man had jumped half his own height. Furthermore, he jumped backward, slamming the door behind him. The man would make an excellent victim in a horror film. For several reasons.

"I do wish you wouldn't bother with the light," he said. "My eyes have quite adjusted."

"P-Professor Layton," said Hicks, voice under surprising control. "You're aware you are trespassing on government property."

"Of course I am. I did pay attention in school." Unlike others, Layton didn't say. It wouldn't quite be a fair barb-- the man had done decent enough work before deciding that proper scientific protocol were too restraining-- but oh, would it be satisfying.

"Then you're aware that I can and will have you forcibly escorted off the property."

"I'm surprised you haven't made the attempt already," said Layton. "I assume, given that we seem to agree that I am not an idiot, that you suspect I either have a weapon or have incapacitated the guards."

"I am inclined to be charitable toward men of learning," said Hawks, cautiously edging further into the room. 

"Hmm. You do have a talent for politics, after all." Layton sat up, as casually as he possibly could while keeping one hand tucked away in his coat pocket. He still wasn't entirely sure how he felt about this longer model, though Paul was undoubtedly correct that the darker colour would provide better camoflauge in the city. "Still, let's not mince words. No doubt we both have far more important things to do."

"Rather," said Hawks. His face remained studiously neutral, though his eyes were beginning to glare. "What brings you to my windowsill, Professor?"

"A sense of fair play," said Layton. "There was a chance that you simply didn't understand the situation that you have found yourself in. I thought you ought to have the chance to resign."

"So you're threatening me," said Hawks.

"Oh, not in the way you're imagining. It's just that you, or your overzealous compatriots, have set certain events into motion."

"I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about," said Hawks. Layton stared at his face; noted a twitch of his eyes. He was fairly certain that was a lie. But had he simply deduced it, or been a party to it? And did either really merit that much less blame?

"Your castle is built on sand, Bill," said Layton. "You have gotten yourself into bed with far more and far worse men than I think you even realize. Is that why you remain? Are you afraid?"

"I remain," said Hawks, icily, "because my Queen and my country have requested my service."

"Under what pretenses, one wonders," said Layton. "Granted, we all have our masks."

"I should not judge my decisions until you have been in my position," said Hawks. "Matters of policy are delicate things, and rarely have clear-cut--"

"Why on earth are you pretending I might mean some question of _policy_?" He was honestly bewildered by it. "Are you so used to it, now? That even beyond all possible need to conceal it--"

"I know you are distraught over the incident that day, and truly the circumstances were regrettable--"

"Dear god. The thugs, Bill. The _donors_. The _corporate interests_. Will you _stop_ pretending you don't know what I'm talking about and take responsibility for your actions?"

A moment of silence. "I haven't the faintest idea what you might mean," said Hawks.

Layton sighed. Hawks continued. "I realize that you've had a terribly difficult month, so I am willing to excuse your current, frankly criminal, behaviour; but I shall not be so lenient again."

"Well. I am certainly grateful for your forbearance." Layton stood. "I regret to inform you that your completely innocent corporate allies have already declared war on your behalf. You should probably have a word with them about their intemperance. However, I suspect they haven't actually listened to you for a very long time. _Do not_ ," Layton said, raising a hand, voice flashing like the sun on sharpened steel, " _bother to deny it to me again._ While I obviously am in possession of time to waste, I do not have _that_ much of it. 

"I just supposed that it was possible that no one had given you the opportunity to do the honourable thing. That it had not occurred to you; or, perhaps, you just needed the courage. You have your chance. The door remains open to you. You may end this game at any time."

"And what game would that be?" asked Hawks, glaring.

Layton laughed, though the sound was rather without mirth. "If I were you," he said, "I'd make deducing that my highest priority. My duty here is fulfilled."

His hand slipped into his pocket, and retrieved a golden mask, with slotted eyes, a pale chevron on its forehead, and long tails along the cheeks. Half a mask, really. He suspected it would be entirely lost on Hawks, but he slipped it over his face anyway. It wasn't meant for him. It was surprising how little of this had anything to do with the leech.

"I'll be seeing you around, Bill," he said, and tipped himself backward.

He'd often had occasion to wonder what such a fall would feel like. He'd experienced a few similar, from time to time, and he'd expected the sick twist in his stomach, the strange dilation of time, the unwarranted feeling of freedom. What he hadn't expected-- what he'd experienced once or twice elsewhere, but forgotten-- was the strange, sudden feeling of peace; no, of clarity. The unexpected and frankly probably also unwarranted certainty that he knew exactly what he was doing.

His rear end hit the seat with a jolt that disabused him of such foolish notions. Quickly, as rehearsed, he gathered his limbs inside the cockpit, closing the glass above him.

"For god's sake," said Paul, as the craft leapt forward with a speed that pushed him palpably into the seat, "couldn't you have stood his presence for just a _little_ longer?"

Layton just raised his eyebrows, meeting Paul's eyes in the rearview mirror. The man did look rather flushed; he'd probably had to hurry to make their arranged rendezvous. 

"All right, yes," said Paul, "but you're supposed to be the patient one, god damn it. And where the hell was my diversion?!"

"You mean he actually _didn't_ alert the guards?"

"Not a peep."

"Good lord." Layton stared at the sinking moon, shaking his head. He'd assumed the man would have some sort of... emergency alert device, or other form of competent and readily-summoned security. This incompetence affronted and scandalized what was left of the patriot within him. "How did the man ever manage to impersonate a respected scientist?"

"Probably offered to write the grant papers," said Paul, with the air of an expert. "Most of the real ones hate it for being 'political' nonsense, and don't understand the power they're giving away."

Layton grimaced. "I suppose that would fit future events rather well."

"And it's quite common." Paul's voice put a bitter emphasis on the 'quite'.

"Thesis advisor?"

Paul snorted. "First-year physics professor, thank you very much. Queensberry."

He said the name like Layton should recognise it, which seemed to Layton like quite uncharacteristic optimism on his part. However, after a moment, Layton realized that the name actually did ring a bell. "The one who was sacked over some incident with the rugby team and illegal betting?"

"The very one."

The sheer satisfaction in his voice-- "Paul. You didn't."

"They didn't care about the plagiarism," Paul said, "or all the girls and poors who changed studies second year. So I found something they would care about."

Layton raised a hand to his forehead, and realized he was still wearing his mask. He laughed at himself, leaning his head back, looking for the stars behind the light of the city and the glare of the glass. "I suppose I can't argue with that."

"Would you take that hideous thing off already?" said Paul, yanking a lever with more violence than was strictly required. "I feel like I'm talking to the Phantom of the god damn Opera."

"Your appreciation for culture is sorely lacking." Layton shook his head. 

"I just admitted to knowing the Phantom of the god damn Opera exists, isn't that enough for you?"

"You are aware that isn't the exact name?"

"I have been to the god damn opera," said Paul, "and yes, I promise you, it actually is."

Layton shook his head sadly. "Liberal arts students," Paul growled, glaring at him in the mirror.

"Let's not relitigate the 'hard' versus 'soft' science debate again, Paul, we've an aeroplane to land."

"Don Paolo," growled Paul, "and you aren't exactly being any help."

Fair enough. Layton took off the mask, studying it in the dim starlight. He wasn't sure if it were Paul's suggestion or the weight of its lengthy history, but it did look rather harrowing, soulless and cruel. So much the better, Layton presumed.

"Why do I feel like I've seen that thing before?" Paul suddenly demanded. "That isn't some stupidly recognizable artefact or something, is it?"

"Not outside my particular field, no. How long have you been... er... tracking me?"

Paul glared at him for so long that Layton had to fight the urge to remind him to look where he was going. "Wait, that idiotic masked thief in that hellhole of a desert city?"

Layton stiffened. "He wasn't a thief," he remonstrated, "and Monte d'Or is one of the most celebrated cities in--"

"You're having me on. You're going to emulate the second-poufiest fop I've ever seen in my god damn life? That's your idea of being intimidating?!"

"The--" Layton sputtered for just a moment, uncertain which of the insults that had just been thrown at him and his best childhood friend he should be most offended by. "He certainly seemed to inspire enough fear in Monte d'Or. The specifics don't matter much, you said. It's the actions that we back them up with that will truly put the fear of god into them, you said."

"Mother of..." Paul shook his head. "You choose to have a memory at the strangest god damn times. Whatever. At least it isn't a _boa_ ", he said, spitting the last word out like a curse.

Layton felt a sudden strong need to defend his brother's honour, or at least his sartorial choices, but fortunately the effort of deciding how to do so without revealing secrets that were neither his nor wise to tell delayed him long enough to think better of it.

"Well, we've time to work it out," muttered Paul, starting to flip switches. The craft started to descend; Layton tried to resist the urge to grip his seat more tightly. It wasn't that he didn't trust Paul; it was simple human instinct to fear falling. He hadn't been in a craft piloted by Paul before. The Laytonmobile, surely-- that was proof of the man's engineering capacity, had he needed it-- but there was always a faint vulnerability in riding.

Perhaps that would put Paul in a better mood. 

They set down in the centre of the lot, neatly in the middle of the marks Paul had chalked on the ground. Layton left the cockpit first, knowing that there was little point in attempting to converse with the man until his craft was tucked in to his satisfaction. "I'll make tea?" he offered, instead.

"For the love of--"

"And coffee," he amended, though he was quite certain the man had simply never tried the proper blend.

Paul glared at him. "Black," he reminded him, before stalking off to his tarp and tool-box.

That wouldn't be difficult to remember, Layton thought. What was the phrase he'd heard the students use in coffeeshops? 'Black as my heart'?

He shrugged to himself and set out for the kitchenette, the mask a noticeable weight in his front pocket. The building was already becoming familiar to him; he hadn't used the side entrance more than once, but he ducked easily through the shelves, finding the pull for the central light-switch without a thought. His familiarity with the cabinets was more to be expected, as he'd arranged their contents himself two days ago. Paul had been utterly incensed at the displacement of his coffee apparatus until Layton had offered him a conciliatory mug.

He hadn't got proper cups yet, and with the way Paul handled crockery when he was absorbed in a project, Layton feared it might be wisest not to bother. The mugs were thick and plain, but retained heat well, and if it were merely the fripperies that were the test of civilisation, then the notion was entirely without worth.

Two mugs, then, the kettle, and the French press; a smooth but bracing blend tonight, and a slightly lighter brew for Paul. Layton wondered idly about the particularities of coffee-making. He'd never had much occasion to investigate before, but he'd heard the process had its subtleties, and if he were going to make the beverage on a regular basis, he would greatly prefer to do it right.

To do it right. He glanced at the folders on the table. 

_"Paul--"_

_"It's simple enough, anyone donating over that amount must surely--"_

_"That's hardly damning evidence. The sheer number of companies here! Surely they can't all be involved, or they'd have done a far more thorough job of killing us."_

_"Which is why I'm not saying all of them, just the ones that donated over--"_

_"But that will bias us toward larger organizations simply because they've more money to spend--"_

_"And they're all probably guilty, too--"_

_"But not necessarily of--"_

_"Do you have any better ideas?! It's a solid place to start!"_

_"Well... Oh dear God, Paul, no. The RSPCA?!"_

_"Oh, for... you're kidding me."_

_"The RSPCA, Paul!"_

_"I never did like those adverts with the stupid puppy on the--"_

_"The RSPCA has not endorsed the use of hired thugs!"_

_"I admit attack dogs would seem more their style, but--"_

_"I cannot infiltrate the RSPCA, Paul! What would Luke think?!"_

_"Given he's in bloody America--"_

_"Paul. For the love of God. This net is just too wide."_

_"We can't dismiss the possibility just because of some sentimental--"_

_"Paul. How many have you marked on that sheet alone?"_

_"..."_

_"And how many sheets are there?"_

_"..."_

_"Unless you think we've the time to create a robot army, we simply must narrow our search further."_

_"...Ugh. When you're right, you're right. But that robot army idea is still on the table."_

So the man was, at least, capable of listening to reason, even if, on occasion, he strongly preferred not to. Layton supposed he could empathize a little more than he might have a few weeks prior.

Everything had been set to brew; he stared at the teapot, stifling a sigh. Such a strange feeling, after the dramatics were over. Such a restlessness, now the intricacies of the teamaking were done distracting him. He'd done it partly to calm himself, and it had; but now he was left with the quiet, and the still uncomfortable reality of what he had just done. Of what he intended to do. Of what he intended to become.

He suspected he was still at the point of the crossing where it was best to not look down.

At any rate, letting the tea oversteep would only make matters worse; so it was time to busy himself again with mugs and what passed for their crockery. And there was the door, Paul shaking off the worst of the damp before stalking in with a scowl. "Bloody rain. You'd better have my coffee."

Layton held out Paul's mug, still steaming.

"...Descended from a like of goddamn butlers, aren't you." Paul's scowl didn't soften as he grabbed the mug from Layton's hands, but as he took a sip, it began to.

"I actually haven't inquired." Now that Paul mentioned it, he wondered. He was reasonably familiar with his family's history, inasmuch as it was talked about, but he'd never really delved into his family of birth. Odd for an archaeologist to leave the past buried.

Paul glared over the rim of his mug. "You're going to start making the fancy coffee too, aren't you?"

"You don't sound entirely appalled by the prospect."

"I see no reason not to use your Englishness for good." Paul sat down and drew another stack of folders from his coat. "You'd better have made that strong. We've a lot of cross-referencing ahead of us."

"Takes me back to my undergraduate days."

Paul scowled. "Well, for god's sake, let's spend as little time reliving that as possible." He glanced over the folders' labels, selecting one from the pile and tossing it on the table. "That one's yours. Let's get started."

It took hours, a great deal of heckling from Paul, and a second brewing, and it did indeed remind him of late nights studying in his youth-- but then it was some ungodly hour, the light shining down thin from the bare bulbs as if it knew it was unnatural, and there it was.

Layton stared down at the sheet of paper in front of him: the list of names. It was, thank god, one sheet of paper alone. He had, unfortunately, been writing in rather small handwriting.

"To see a list of one's enemies arrayed like that..." he said. "It's rather daunting."

"But not insurmountable," said Paul, arms folded, glaring balefully down at the list.

"Wherever do you get your confidence?"

"I'm me," said Paul, "and you're you. You're the only one who could possibly beat me, and we're on the same side. We are, therefore, unstoppable."

Layton felt his eyebrows rising.

"It's simple logic," said Paul.

"You credit me with a great deal." And himself, but Layton was too polite to bring that up.

"Christ, do I have to give you a pep talk now? You just saved the whole of London from a giant mechanical monstrosity. What the hell else could you possibly want?"

"Not the whole of it," Layton felt compelled to correct, for several reasons.

"Well, we're working on it," said Paul. "And don't think I don't know you were up to something big with that 'Azran' nonsense. I mightn't know what, exactly, but it's obvious something ridiculous was going on."

The Azran...? Odd how that seemed a whole lifetime ago. "You delved that deeply, even then?"

Paul scowled. "It was only a few months before the stupid robot village, don't sound so surprised. And it's not like you were being stealthy about it. What the hell happened in Monte d'Or, anyway?"

"I'm surprised I never saw you there."

Paul glared at him. "Seriously?"

"Well, yes," Layton said, "on further consideration, that is less of a surprise. I meant more that you failed to confront me."

Paul's scowl deepened. "Your other admirers were intent on monopolizing your time," he spat.

Other admirers...? Oh dear lord. "Descole?"

"Is that boa-fop's name?"

"Well, technically, no..."

Paul shook his head. "Whatever. Him and that group of damned thugs. Hotter water than I chose to get into. What the hell are we talking about this for?"

"I believe you were giving me a 'pep talk'."

"Good god." Paul groaned, rolling his eyes so hard his whole head moved with them. "You can take these little weasels six ways before breakfast, shut the hell up and deal with it."

"I'll do my best." He only realised he was smiling when he looked back down at the list and felt it fade. "However do we tackle so many of them?"

"Same way you eat an elephant, Layton," said Paul, and grimaced. "One bite at a time. Let's take it from the top, shall we?"

"And where would the top be?"

Paul tapped the top of the list. "Why not there? It's arbitrary, but as good an order as any other."

There might be better sorting criteria, but Layton didn't know what they were, wasn't sure they would reveal themselves by any means other than experimentation. He let out a careful breath. "Kingsmere Mining and Excavation."

"There we go." Paul stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. "Tomorrow."

Tomorrow. It was time to begin.

He devoutly hoped he was ready for this.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

\--

This was his life now. He'd woken up indecently late, prepared tea and toast on the old and dying range, remembered just before he opened the door that his hair was required to be presentable these days, and left the building with a quick nod to his new landlady, who provided no additional benefit to the rooms save incuriosity. He walked ten minutes to catch a bus, doubled back and walked twenty more, until he entered the warehouse, thick with the scents of motor oil, metal, and coffee. It was a minor annoyance to him that the scent of tea would never compete.

Paul tossed something his way as he approached; Layton caught it reflexively, and opened his fingers to realize it was-- chalk. Paul jerked his chin to the right, and Layton saw that he had unearthed a wheeled chalkboard from god alone knew where, fractured but whole. 

It would be cruelly perfect if he got around to actually using such implements far more in his new life than his old.

"We need a plan," said Paul, already halfway through a cup of coffee, and likely enough not his first. "And we need to agree on it first. Damned if I'm going to have a perfectly good plan shot to hell because we have to kidnap a kitten or something."

"Surely there is always a better option than kidnapping kittens."

"This is going to be an unendurable campaign." Paul massaged his forehead. "But come on then, let's hash it out. Our goal."

Layton looked at the board. "Remove B. Hawks from power," he chalked up.

"I was meaning more immediate, but at least we're in agreement."

"Though perhaps we should consult on our definition of 'remove'," said Layton.

Paul waved that off with only a very slightly more pronounced frown. "I'm no murderer. Get him ousted, and not to some posh job where he can immediately f--foul things up in marginally different ways. Remove him from power, yes."

Layton considered the board again, then chalked two subheadings. "Erode political support. Erode financial support."

"Interlinked, of course, but yes, we'll need to work on both," Paul said, and grimaced. "Hate working with those sorts of people."

"I'll take a wild guess you mean politicians."

"They can all be damned, to be perfectly honest. But yes."

Layton tapped his bottom lip thoughtfully. "I must admit I've little idea how to approach the politicians. Modern political theory was not exactly my field of study."

"And I won't pretend I've any skill at it," said Paul, "so you shan't have to break your gentlemanly facade by laughing your arse off. One thing I do know, though, is that an awful lot of support is going to depend an awful lot on the money."

"So we attack the money first and see what remains after." Layton had thought as such. It was why he had listed it second, to allow for subheadings. "Kingsmere Mining and Excavation," he wrote. "The question becomes... what exactly do we do to them?"

"Whatever it takes," said Paul.

"Whatever it takes in order to do what, though?"

"Ruin them?" suggested Paul.

"That might be somewhat harsh," said Layton, "as well as more difficult. The goal is simply to divest him of their funds, yes?"

"Which they're hardly going to do willingly, if they haven't yet," Paul countered. "Additionally, if they're buying one politician, what will stop them from buying the next?"

"Preferably, a better breed of politicians," said Layton.

"Yes, who will all commute to work on their shining unicorns, casting their largesse among the populace on their way. In the real world, I am greatly interested in your plan to ensure no craven bastards are elected to high office ever again."

Layton sighed. "That does seem a tall order, yes."

"Obviously, Hawks is the priority," said Paul. "He's a significant investment on their parts, and while I've no doubt they've others waiting in the wings, I doubt he could be replaced tomorrow."

"But you're right," said Layton, "the future should be considered as well." Though he still winced at having to use that word.

Paul was quiet for a moment. "Look," he said, "I'm a utilitarian bastard. I don't deny I'd enjoy having them all run out of town on rails, but if you've a practically feasible alternative that achieves the same ends, I'm not going to complain because it's not immoral enough."

"And if there isn't one," said Layton, thinking back to buildings reduced to rubble and the particular chill of IV fluids dripping into one's veins, "I'm not going to complain that it _isn't_ moral. It's perfectly justified at this point."

"I suppose we actually do agree." Paul didn't seem entirely happy about it.

"The question is, then, how on earth to manage it." Layton frowned at the chalkboard. "We'll need more proof if we're to publicly shame them."

"Campaign contributions aren't illegal," said Paul. "Hiring thugs is, but I can promise you there's layers and layers between them. They'll claim they never knew and get away with it."

"But the perception--"

"Layton," said Paul, "they aren't ashamed of the truth."

"You really don't think it would be a scandal?"

"Not so much of one as you'd think."

Layton folded his arms. "I disagree."

Paul was silent for a moment. "Well, I suppose we'll find out," he said, "but the thing is, I'm pretty sure _they_ agree with _me_."

Which would, indeed, be the vital point, wouldn't it? "So we must find something they do fear," he said.

"Which, with that sort, is generally losing money. Possibly losing status as well, but mostly the money."

"A scandal, of whichever sort," said Layton. "So we research, and discover some form of... leverage... then confront the leader and insist they withdraw their funding?"

"Among other support," said Paul. "Oughtn't forget the thugs."

"They do make quite the impression," said Layton, with a grimace. 

"Good god, was that a joke?"

"Yes, actually."

"I suppose I should be grateful." Paul rubbed his eyes. "It's time for research, then. Delightful."

"Don't tell me you dislike the activity?"

"There were other reasons I decided it was prudent to leave academia, you know. Precipitous though it might have been, it was not entirely an act of madness. Just mostly."

Layton considered it. "I suppose I can see that it might not have suited you."

"Delicately put, as always. I can scope out the main building, whatever it is."

"And there are several public records that might be useful. That should be the best division of labour for the moment." Layton put down the chalk.

"Get all the blueprints you can," said Paul. "Don't forget their residence."

"Why on earth would we need a blueprint of their residence?"

"For such men, their place of residence is a place of business half the time. Dinners and galas and all that other nonsense." Layton began to nod, but Paul added, "Also their safes."

"Paul!"

"Their _secrets_ , Layton, not their stock certificates!"

It was Layton's turn to massage his temples. "Still..." The thought of breaking into a man's house, however much of a blackguard he might be, felt unconscionable. But depending on the ends, might it not be? Were a kidnap victim locked in the basement, who would have a qualm? Where was the line drawn?

"For the love of-- safecracking is awful and we're not doing it if we don't have to." Layton had a feeling he didn't mean morally awful.

"I find it hard to believe we might _have_ to."

"Well, by all means, apply that magical mind to the problem," snapped Paul. "Find a practical way around it and I'm all ears. But it's got to be on the bloody table."

Was he compromising too far? Did ends justify means? Was it worth worrying quite so much over what was, at the moment, a mere hypothetical? Hadn't he already made this decision, really? And could he not always change his mind?

He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, reminding himself of what was no longer there. "On a case-by-case basis," he said, "I'm willing to be convinced."

"My life is going to be a living hell," said Paul, "a foul and hideous pit of damnation caused by naught but my own incredibly poor choices."

Somehow, Layton couldn't drum up any sympathy. "I suggest you find a way to deal with it."

"Oh, never you worry, I've been doing that for quite some time." Paul drained the last of his coffee. "Let's get to it, then. We'll meet here-- hell, some time past sunset."

"So we shall. Good luck to you."

"Try not to get yourself killed," said Paul, and headed for the door.

Layton lingered a moment, looking at the chalkboard. Perhaps this slope would be slippery. Perhaps his moral integrity would frequently rely on his ability to come up with a plan more reliable than the easy, cutthroat way.

And if that were the case, perhaps he had little to fear.

He reached up to tug down his nonexistent hat brim, sighed at himself, and headed outward. Toward ground he had tread before, for the first time in what felt like quite a while; toward the municipal archives.

-


	3. Chapter 3

Layton couldn't help smiling to himself as he straightened his bowtie.

"What the devil are you looking so smug about?" Paul snapped. Layton just shrugged apologetically. After his rather haphazard forays into the field of clandestine work thus far, a return to general competence was quite reassuring.

Paul had walked into the room with a newspaper, tearing off a bonnet. Layton never had enquired about the bonnet, and never intended to. 

"Got a couple angles," Paul had said. "First, there's that factory of theirs. Can't possibly be up to code. There's the question of exactly how--"

Layton had pulled his copy of the relevant building code from his satchel.

"--good thinking. That'll take a lot of work, though, and there's the question of how to get in; I'm still figuring out where it is I need to get in _to_ , the place is a maze--"

Layton had taken his copy of the factory's blueprints from its spot beside his satchel, and placed it on the table.

"--is that the blueprints? Who'd you have to-- how'd you get that?"

"It's public records, actually. Not a perfect copy, but hopefully it will suffice. If you find any areas of particular interest, I can return. I didn't have too much time to spend at it today."

"Right. Of course, I don't know if the government is sufficiently incorrupt at this point to investigate code violations, so there's always the personal angle. Sounds like the wife's from quite the family--"

Layton had pulled the copies of biographical clippings from his satchel.

"--and how the devil did you have time to find _that_?"

"Apparently there are archivists who clip interesting news articles every day. It's fascinating. I also have a couple of books."

"You're having me on."

"The grandmother was convinced of her family's importance, and donated enough to the library that they have kept her account of the family's history. And, I fear, the occasional entry in Burke's."

"In what?"

"Burke's Peerage. They've noble ties. I could do a genealogical survey if the route seems promising."

"I... at any rate, they're throwing a ball in a week and a half. If we can sneak in, we might be able to find something useful... or use something if we've already found it." Paul had glared at him. "Don't tell me. You've got the blueprints of their house, too."

"Oh, no, of course not," Layton had said. "That's only available to the property owner. I'll need _your_ help for that one."

"...You may be," Paul had said, "slightly more useful than I had feared."

"I shan't let the effusive praise go to my head."

Still, he'd appreciated it. He had felt himself too much of a burden in this; there might be hope for him yet.

Here and now, Paul was turning to glare at him. "You haven't forgotten your cover, have you?"

"Of course not."

"Hmmph." Paul turned back to the mirror. "Randall?"

"Yes?"

"Hmmph." Paul had started work on a list of aliases Layton might respond to, suggesting Marshall and Aiden and other names with similar sounds; he'd been dubious of Layton's suggestion that he would remember Randall as well. He'd spent long enough looking for the man around every corner that he knew the name never failed to grab his attention. 

He was still quietly pondering whether to add Theodore.

At any rate, Randall Hayden was ostensibly a manufacturer from a small town; the guest list was large enough that several such small luminaries had been invited, and, with any luck, his lack of familiarity would not be out of place. Paul, on the other hand, had decided to go as a waiter. "Learn more that way," he'd said. "Will have to get you trained up sometime. I expect you'll be a natural."

"Randall?" 

"Yes?"

"God damn it. Right." Paul shrugged on the jacket of his uniform. He wasn't in a full disguise-- apparently it had been easy enough to be hired on for the night, or to pretend to be-- but his nose was noticeably smaller, and he had a full head of normal hair. Layton still wasn't sure how he managed it. "You remember where I've hidden the helicopter?"

"Yes, Paul." Layton buttoned up his waistcoat. There had been limited options in the shop, and limited time to browse, but he thought this embroidered crimson should do nicely. Though it also ran the risk of drawing attention, which he would prefer to only employ at strategic times. Perhaps he had been in a nostalgic mood. He'd worn a vest every day, once. 

"You know the routes."

"Yes, Paul."

"You keep an ear out, so will I, and we'll discuss at seven. Hayden?"

"Yes?"

Paul sighed irritably. "Let's get on with it."

"Good luck," said Layton. Paul looked like he wanted to say something, then shook his head with a scowl and stalked away.

Layton was off the other direction; it would be several minutes' walking before he arrived at a part of town with decent cab service that wouldn't look askance at his requested address. His tailcoat was securely buttoned against the chill of the evening; he wondered if he should have added a scarf to his ensemble. Perhaps next time. There would, likely enough, be a next time.

A strange thought. A strange new world he was in. Familiar, and yet entirely changed. He'd never given too much thought to the crowds around him; and now, he scanned them all for thugs, for threats. Though-- at least he was looking now.

There; he should be far enough now. He was beginning to see the occasional cab on the street. He hailed one and gave the address, doing his best to appear incurious, as if this were just another dinner party out of many. Cabs were one form of transport he had rarely had occasion to use. As a student, he had been too poor; as a professor, he had quickly chanced across the opportunity to invest in the Laytonmobile (as even he had given in to calling it); he had used airships and trains and trolleys, but rarely a cab.

The driver chattered through the trip, mostly to himself; Layton watched through the window, with the occasional polite murmuring of agreement or dismay. The buildings grew brighter, cleaner, then sparser; the greenery grew in quantity, though impeccably trimmed and restrained. Dark or golden gates barred graveled lanes, and then there was one that was open, and they were on their way though. Down they went, along the long driveway, and then stopped near the door, behind two other cabs.

Well, at least he wouldn't stand out. He paid his fare and left the cab, turning to survey the immaculately maintained grounds. It wasn't the time of year to appreciate the gardens, though the topiary drew one's attention. Where had the custom of cutting bushes into lions begun, anyway? It reminded him of a--

He shook his head. He could not be distracted by lesser puzzles now. Still, it was difficult to resist. Though the inner pockets of his coat were laden with things he could only hope were truly concealed, he felt adrift without his case and weaponless in enemy territory.

But then, he was never truly without weapons. 

They had a footman, but not one so experienced that he could not slip in past a small knot of other guests without comment. He looked around at the hall. Not as grand as some he had been in-- certainly no match for Anton's-- but it was decorated lavishly, tall urns of flowers in the corners, dance-floor polished to a near-mirror shine. Which also reminded him of Duke Anton in rather unfortunate ways. 

He headed for the long table of hors d'oeuvres, to fetch himself a drink. The punch was rather watery, but that suited his purposes just fine; all he needed was something to hold, something to occupy his mouth other than words. Something to disguise the fact that he could listen.

Not that there was much to listen to. In a hall like this, it was difficult to pick out any one conversation. He found himself piking up a shred of one, then another; a mother and daughter arguing about the latter's weekend plans, two men discussing their company's latest valuation on the stock market, a woman talking about Kingsmere's most recent editorial bemoaning the increasing lack of Good British Virtues. Mrs. Kingsmere appeared to be berating the service staff over a seating mix-up, which reminded him of several puzzles he had no time to contemplate and already knew the answers to. So much chaff, so little wheat.

It was fortunate that they had already ascertained a target.

And there she was. At the other side of the hall, naturally; he began casually to drift closer. Her brown hair was pinned up in a bun; her glasses were large and round, magnifying dark brown eyes. He was no judge of fashion, but her yellow dress hardly looked new-- he thought he'd seen similar in his university days. Clean, and immaculately pressed, but no bespoke token. Young enough to be a student of his, but she wasn't.

Casually, he started to drift her way. A stop at the refreshment table for a canape; a pause to admire a particularly towering flower arrangement (urn in an Etruscan style, poor reproduction). She was speaking with an older man in a blue suit and square glasses. 

"...your desk yesterday," she was saying.

"Thank you, Prudence. As for the Carruthers..."

Two gossiping men passed between them; Layton dodged and edged a little closer.

"...yes, next Thursday. I made sure to finish it before I left."

"Excellent, thank you. That's that, then." The man adjusted his glasses. "Sorry to bring shop talk into this."

"Oh, not at all, sir!"

"No, no. This is a party. It's time for you to relax." The man clapped her on the back.

"Well, I'll try, sir," she said, with a smile.

"Go on. Mingle a bit. You never know who you might meet." The man winked at her, and left. Prudence was left alone with a glass of punch and a slowly fading false smile.

It was time for his move. He moved forward into the crowd, deliberately jostling her elbow. Not the one with the drink; that would just be gauche.

"Oh!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Layton. "I wasn't thinking. Are you all right?"

"Yes..." She fixed a faintly mistrustful stare at him. 

"Oh, good." He let out a relieved sigh. "I'm-- er-- I'm Randall Hayden."

"Prudence Sykes," said Prudence, though she seemed a little reluctant.

"Have you... been to one of these parties before?"

"I'm not sure why it would be any business of yours," said Prudence. She was getting defensive, now. He supposed it was understandable. It certainly sounded like a poor flirtation, or even a veiled insinuation that she was visibly out of place. But he had expected that.

"I'm sorry," said Layton. "I didn't mean to offend. I'm just... I'm just not used to attending these things alone." He turned away, fingers tracing the bare spot on his finger where a ring might have been, in some fairer world.

"Oh, no," said Prudence, quickly. "I'm sorry! I just..." She hesitated, and admitted, "I'm not, either."

"She was always the light of these," Layton said, quietly. "I never had to learn how to occupy myself without her. I'm doing everything wrong." He looked down at his hand. "I'm supposed to be over it by now. But just when I think I'm used to it... another unexpected ghost." He shut his eyes.

"I know," said Prudence. "My mother... she passed ages ago. Ages. Sometimes I go weeks without thinking about it. Months, even. And then someone who looks like her will pass me on the street, or I'll see a mother buying her daughter ice cream, or I'll be trying to cook or clean or go to one of these parties, and I'll have no idea what I'm doing, because she never taught me-- because she never got the chance."

"I'm sorry," said Layton.

"I'm really all right most of the time! I just... it's not as if she would have taught me much about these parties anyway. We didn't have a lot of money." Prudence fidgeted with her gloves. She really didn't need them for this sort of affair, but she'd probably had no one to inform her of that.

"I suppose there are any number of rules that no one's written down," said Layton.

"And I don't know what any of them are!" She sighed. "Mr. Phelps helped a little, but there's all these things he's just _used_ to-- and I certainly wasn't going to ask him about fashion. I was seriously considering calling in sick, but it's a company thing, and Mr. Kingsmere..."

"Hmm?"

"Mr. Kingsmere came by and told all of us in the secretarial pool we should come. He said it would be an opportunity." She frowned. "He didn't say what for."

"I suppose it looks good to have his employees here," said Layton. "Or I suppose he might have been in need of eligible ladies. A soiree without women is a sad affair indeed."

"You know, that's probably it," said Prudence. "Mr. Phelps would certainly seem to agree. I think my mother met my father at a party, actually. But she never talked about it a lot."

"It's fairly common, I've heard," said Layton. "More so in gatherings of youth, but I've certainly seen a few matches made at these as well."

"She didn't really talk about it much," said Prudence. She took a sip of punch. "She didn't like talking about him."

"Ah," sighed Layton. "Too many women have reasons to think poorly of men."

"Well, he died," she said, "so it's not exactly his fault. But Aunt Abby does always say he should've married her before he went."

"Death does tend to derail one's plans," said Layton.

"Oh-- I'm sorry." She blushed a little, probably also realising how much she'd revealed. But Layton was safe; not a notable, not a boss, not an eligible bachelor to impress. A harmless gentleman, and one whom she would probably never see again. He hadn't quite realised it, but he had always been entrusted with a fair few confidences on his travels, presumably for exactly those reasons. "We shouldn't be talking about these things."

"No, no," said Layton. "One isn't supposed to, of course, but-- it's... nice. Not to hide it."

Prudence hesitated, then leaned closer. "I sort of was considering looking for an eligible bachelor," Prudence confided. "It's hard living alone."

"Indeed it is."

"But I'm worried that I'll just make a fool of myself. Who will be interested in some secretary who doesn't know her salad fork from her dessert fork?"

"Oh, I think many men have other priorities," said Layton. Some for better, and some for worse. "And it's a skill that can be learned. I've no doubt you'll do just fine."

"Thank you," said Prudence, and smiled. No, he didn't think she'd have any trouble at all. He just hoped she chose her suitors wisely.

After all, he suspected he knew why her mother had chosen her name. 

"At any rate, I should--" Prudence started to move away.

"Oh, hello, there!"

Albert Kingsmere, the man of the hour, was a thin man of average height. His face was slightly lined and dominated by an impressive grey mustache. He had dressed in a tuxedo for the occasion, and he held a champagne flute in his hand. Layton knew his face, of course. Any guest of this party would have. And it was best to know one's enemy, when possible.

"Mr. Kingsmere!" said Prudence. Layton inclined his head.

"Florence, was it?"

"Prudence," said Prudence. "Prudence Sykes."

"Ah, of course, of course. My apologies." He smiled. Layton might have believed him if he hadn't known better. "I'm glad you came tonight."

"Oh, er, as am I, sir," said Prudence. "It's been a lovely party so far."

"You should enjoy it," said Kingsmere. "Mingle! You might meet someone new. You never know what opportunities might await."

"Oh, I'm fairly happy with my life as it is, sir," said Prudence. Layton might have believed her if he hadn't known better. 

"You've got to be open to opportunity, though," said Kingsmere. "I always wished I'd travelled more, as a lad."

"Oh, I could hardly manage-- er, I mean--"

"Oh, it has its difficulties," said Kingsmere, "but there's so much to learn about the world. Wouldn't you agree, Mr....?"

"Hayden," answered Layton. "Randall Hayden."

"Yes, yes. I do apologise. I'm quite rubbish with names. Though I'm quite certain I've seen you around."

"Oh, yes," said Layton, "though I try not to make a fuss of myself." 

"I don't mean to intrude," said Kingsmere. "I just do love to see young things leave the nest."

"There certainly is a lot to see out there," said Layton. Were it not for the tension at the back of his mind, he might have had a difficult time resisting the urge to smile. Like any puzzle, the man was astonishingly transparent once you knew the trick of it.

"Right," said Prudence. "Well, I... guess I'd better go see what there is to see, then!" She started to back away, nervous, but waiting for permission.

"Yes, yes. Enjoy!" Kingsmere waved her away with a kindly chuckle. Prudence fled as quickly as was politely possible. No doubt she felt something was untoward about her boss's interest. He was dreadfully unsubtle about it.

"I should be going myself," said Layton. "I ought to make the rounds."

"Excellent. I do hope to see you again, Mr. Hayden!"

"Oh, I'm sure our paths will cross," said Layton. Kingsmere left first, though, visiting more guests, as a good host should. Layton watched him go, then returned to the table, where a waiter was putting out more glasses.

"Well, I'm convinced," he said quietly, looking thoughtfully at the punch bowl.

"Not a bad job," said Paul. "I'm actually quite impressed. Found your angle, eh?"

"Tell all the truth, but tell it slant," said Layton, taking up the ladle. His knowledge of Dickinson came from Angela, as it happened. Claire had never had much time for poetry, preferring adventure novels and (though she tended to hide the titles if she thought anyone was looking) historical romances. Perhaps dredging up old (yet new) ghosts had been an unwise sacrifice to make. "When shall we meet?"

"Before dinner. He'll be headed to his office to fetch notes for his inevitable speech. We'll follow."

Layton nodded, and left, before his delay at the table became noticeable. He stayed at the periphery of the party, quietly sipping his punch, watching and listening to the crowd. There was little of real import. Two men from Atchison Marketing; there was another name on the list, but they were talking only about horse-racing. He supposed the fact that the employees had an interest in gambling might be useful, but it was hardly a surprise. A woman with pinned and braided blonde hair was visibly making the rounds, occasionally pulling out a notebook; he wondered if she might be a reporter. A quick movement to his right caught his attention, but all he really caught was a flash of an amber dress before the woman was out the doors. He hoped she was all right. Prudence spoke briefly with the men from Atchison, but was soon backing away with a polite laugh and wave. Prudence, indeed. He saw her head toward a young man who was entertaining an older woman in what had been thus far an extremely long conversation and wished her luck. It was possible that there were decent people at this ball. Almost certain, in fact. The question was how many.

The noise from the kitchen grew louder, still faint but noticeable now; dinner was impending. Kingsmere slowly broke off his conversation with two older portly gentlemen and headed for a corridor to the left. Layton put down his glass and began to make his way across the room to follow. Because he was watching for it, he saw one of the waiters doing the same.

He looked around, trying not to move his head, looking for watchers, afraid he would be caught. But then he was in the corridor, far enough for the light of the banquet hall to have dimmed. He took a steadying breath, and unbuttoned his coat, the better to reach its inner pockets. Additionally, he was beginning to feel rather warm.

"D'you have your stupid mask?" Paul muttered. Layton produced it from a pocket, slipping it over his face. He was slightly gratified to see Paul take a white domino mask from his own pocket, despite his disguise. "Only sensible," he growled, at Layton's look. "Come on. It's time."

It was. Together, they strode toward the door at the end of the hall. Layton held it open; Paul rolled his eyes so hard the mask failed to disguise it and ducked in under his arm.

Kingsmere was at his desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand; he was naturally startled by their approach. "Here, now," he said, "this is a private room."

"A fact for which you will soon be quite grateful," said Paul, and closed the door.

"You can't just--"

"We have matters to discuss with you, sir," said Layton, "that we suspect you would prefer to remain private."

Kingsmere's eyes narrowed. "If you're here to threaten me, gentlemen," he said, "you will quickly find that I am not a man to threaten with impunity."

"Nor are we men to make idle threats," growled Paul.

"This is a request," Layton corrected. "The excessive donations you have been making to Bill Hawks' party. The ones that are not officially documented and above-board. We would request that you cease them, please."

Out of the corner of his eye, Layton saw Paul rolling his eyes again. He didn't allow it to distract him; he kept his eyes on Kingsmere's face. A twitch of one eyelid, no more. "I assure you that all my business dealings are above board."

"I suppose the line between business and political syndicate can become rather hazy," said Layton. "We have little interest in your business. It's the cabal of paid politicians and armed thugs we are concerned with."

"I can assure you that I keep no 'armed thugs'," said Kingsmere.

"I can assure you that your conglomerate does."

"If you are referring to the informal association of Tory donors I belong to," said Kingsmere, "whatever your taste for our politics, we have made no great secret of our organization. Yes, we have a political lobby. But that is perfectly legal. Referring to our donations as procuring 'paid politicians' is sheer hyperbole. They are fully within their rights to agree with our ideals, whether or not you approve of their position. And I can assure you no investigation will find that we have ties to 'armed thugs'."

Paul scoffed. "I warned you," he said.

Layton sighed. "The Queensberry rules it is, then," he said. "We also know about Prudence."

Kingsmere faltered; paled, just a little. "Evidently not," he said, "or you would certainly not be here."

Were it not for their research, and that brief hesitation, Layton might have believed his claim of ignorance. It was rather well-wrought, for an obvious lie. This excursion was beginning to make him wonder just how good he was at catching lies. He had a reputation for detective work, but that was built solely on obvious factual and logical errors; how many other, more plausible lies did he miss? "A valiant effort," he said, "but we do, in fact, mean Prudence Sykes."

"Junior secretary to your Welsh regional supervisor," said Paul.

"What on earth does that have to do with--"

"More particularly, your connection with her," said Layton.

"What exactly are you insinuating?" Kingsmere blustered. "I'm not having an affair with--"

"Idiot," said Paul. "Of course you're not. You're not that particular kind of monster."

"Please don't try to dissemble," said Layton. "It's rather embarrassing. We do already know."

"She's a secretary--"

"She's your daughter, Kingsmere," said Layton. Though he must have seen it coming, Kingsmere grew paler at those words. Perhaps he really had been cherishing the hope that it was all a bluff.

"Abby told us everything," said Paul. "So don't waste our time. We know about the affair, we know what happened to her mother. Which was entirely your fault, by the by, but that's neither here nor there."

"And we've heard about your wife," said Layton. "It's a terrible shame, really, that your one honourable impulse could so easily be your downfall."

"But we know she told you to cast her aside. If she found out you'd not only kept track of her, but given her a job..."

"While it was a very decent thing to do," said Layton, "she would never forgive you for it. Nor her family. And that... that would cause you trouble indeed."

"Not to mention all the people who would be utterly shocked to hear of any indiscretions in your youth," Paul added. "Probably wasn't a good idea to make all those talks about good British virtues, was it?"

Kingsmere took a deep, shaky breath. His hands were pressed flat against his desk. Layton did feel a little sorry for him, but he had brought it all upon his own head. And all they were asking... "What do you want?"

They'd already said, but he was perfectly willing to reiterate. "We want you to stop funneling funds to Bill Hawks' campaigns." 

"And not the political ones," added Paul. "Don't pretend you don't know what we mean."

"You're... I heard about you." He looked at Layton, who raised his eyebrows. "Professor, isn't it?"

Layton suspected it would be a bad idea to confirm this, though he also suspected it would be futile to deny it. Fortunately, Kingsmere didn't wait long for a response, perhaps realizing how stupid it would be for Layton to provide one.

"They said they'd stopped you," said Kingsmere. "They said you'd run."

Paul started to laugh. "For Christ's sake, man. If you're not going to ditch them because of the secret daughter, or because it's the right thing to do, ditch them because they're _bloody idiots_."

"But it is the right thing to do," said Layton. "For god's sake, man. Have you seen the crater that used to be Grayson Square?"

"The work of terrorists--"

"Should be swept under the rug, so that a particular subset of businessmen may continue living with the ease to which they have been accustomed?" Layton scowled. "You have presented yourself to the world as an honourable man. Is there any of that honour left in you?"

"It's... it's not that simple." Kingsmere shook his head. "If I fall out of favour, my competitors will ruin us."

"Well, I'm sure your stockholders would be glad to hear such a ringing endorsement of your company," scoffed Paul.

"It isn't just-- look, I read the newspapers, I know--"

"You know nothing," snapped Paul. "You weren't there--"

"But perhaps you looked," said Layton, studying Kingsmere closely. "Perhaps you saw. Perhaps you realised what you have come to, what you have really bought with all that money. Perhaps you have just been waiting. For an opening. For an excuse."

Paul rolled his eyes. "You naive little..." he started, and threw up his hands, language apparently failing him to describe Layton's gullibility.

"You're right," said Kingsmere, staring at his hands. "I didn't realise, at first. It's not like politicians haven't been bribed before, in one way or another. But this... this is a whole different animal. By the time I realised... I'd love to do as you ask." He took a deep breath. "But I can't."

"No, you can," said Paul. "It's quite simple, actually. You take your money, and you give it to somebody else. Fund a charity. Buy a boat. There are essentially infinite ways one can devise to spend one's money. Hell, if you truly can't come up with any ideas, I'd be happy to--"

"You don't understand. It's not just me," he said. "If I'm the only one who turns away, what good will it do you? There are plenty more. They'll fight ever the harder, they'll ruin me for daring to break away. They threaten me for more every year. Never explicitly, but it never has to be. What if it came out, after all? In for a penny. I can't just _stop_. It's not just me."

Layton shot a meaningful look at Paul. Paul mimed strangling himself with his tie. Layton took that as a concession of the point they had been arguing before.

"Oh, you won't be the only one who turns away," said Layton. "Merely the first."

Kingsmere looked between the two of them. "The-- do you have no idea what you are dealing with? Or whom?"

"Mr. Kingsmere," said Layton, "do you?"

There was a moment of silence while they allowed Kingsmere to realise that he certainly did not.

"Fine," said Paul. "You'll get your stupid excuse, you coward. And you will do as you have promised, or we _will_ bring this house down around your ears." Paul turned, in that particular abrupt way of his that meant he was done with this conversation, social niceties be damned. It was a reasonable enough stopping place, so Layton turned to follow.

"But-- how?"

"Just watch us!" Paul snapped, and shoved open the doors.

Part 2. They had discussed this, with some heat and at some length. Paul had argued that it was unnecessary, and stupid, and drew unnecessary attention to themselves in the service of stupid notions of British Honour. The sarcastic capital letters had been quite apparent. But despite Paul's lengthy protestations, here they were.

"Don't you think I'm joining in," growled Paul. "I'm piloting the bloody getaway vehicle."

"Only sensible."

"Why yes, I am indeed the only sensible one." Paul grabbed a satchel from underneath a table; Layton wondered when he'd hidden it, how he'd known to choose here. Probably he'd suspected it would come to this.

Paul had argued, and argued, and driven Layton to his wit's end; and finally, Layton had demanded, "Why are you so utterly convinced we'll lose in a fair fight?"

"Because I always have!" Paul had shouted; and then ran a hand over his face, as if he'd been perhaps a bit too honest. "Because why take the risk of--"

"Always?"

Paul had looked at him, and Layton was still attempting to puzzle out what exactly that look in his eyes had meant. Something mildly stricken, faintly lonely. Perhaps not "always". But certainly too many times. "Why take the stupid risk when we could just--"

"They talk, Paul. We'll never hide for long."

"But--"

"There could be benefits."

And it had started again, and Layton never had been entirely certain he'd convinced him.

"Go in, make your stupid speech, and get out," said Paul, digging in his satchel. "I don't like the back route with those dogs. If you're willing to stomach a little property damage--"

"I do think he can afford it--"

"I'll come to you. And Layton?"

"Yes?"

Paul pulled out something dark from his satchel-- something velvet black, with a slash of crimson. He turned it over, and Layton saw it for what it was--

"Wear a damn hat, you look like an idiot in that getup without it," said Paul.

Layton swallowed against a complex surge of emotions he could not currently afford to entertain. Could he? Should he? But Paul was offering, and he offered rarely enough--

He would think through the emotional ramifications later. He took the top hat, and settled it on his head. He did certainly feel less exposed. "Thank you."

Paul's lips twisted. "Knock 'em dead," he said, "and feel free to interpret that as literally as you wish."

And Paul was off in a flutter of coat-tails, and Layton was digging through the heavy pockets of his coat. The flasks. The rope. The trove of amulets against the worst-case scenarios. They would be added to as this wore on, he was certain.

The mask was cold and heavy with its history. The second hallway to the right would take him to the balcony. The hat was snug around his head, which afforded him more comfort than was in any way logical. He took a deep breath. Kingsmere had returned to the dining hall, speech in hand; he was tapping a glass for attention. The time was now.

One flask created the flash; another a suitably arresting noise. Under its cover, he ducked onto the balcony, sparing a downward glance. People were looking around themselves, startled. Only a few were beginning to look up.

For a moment, he wasn't sure what to say. But he couldn't let that show. _Remember Randall,_ he thought. The Masked Gentleman, all righteous indignation and bombast. Remember the classroom, and the chaos caused by even a moment of doubt. Remember fire, and dark alleys, and snow drifting down from a smoky sky.

"Citizens of London," he called, in a voice that could carry across a lecture hall and served him just as admirably here. That got their attention.

"A cancer riddles our fair city, a foul corruption claiming not merely honour and livelihoods, but lives. Companies are colluding to choke our political system, gaming it with their own men and buying their own rules. This is your notice, gentlemen: your days of running roughshod over the populace are over. Cease this madness, or we shall end it for you."

The south windows shattered; Layton threw down the flask of smoke and grabbed on to the rope ladder that fell through them. Climbing it proved unexpectedly difficult, but all he needed to do was take it one rung at a time. One difficult, wavering rung at a time.

Well, nothing for it now.

"Well, I hope you came up with a good little monologue," said Paul, as he finally clambered through the window, "because it's not going to be your last."

"No," said Layton. "It most certainly is not." He should try to improve upon it next time. He certainly had enough people he could ask for advice on preparing a proper dramatic monologue. One even had a fixed address.

Paul sighed. "Queensberry rules, you said?"

"Hmm?"

"The thin and pathetic veneer they use to pretend that boxing is something other than wanton violence," said Paul. "The rules of fair play."

"They go by that name?" Layton tried to remember if he had known that. It was possible he'd read it somewhere, but it wasn't exactly his preferred field of study. "Ironic. I had only thought of your professor."

"Hah. Fair enough, then." Paul nudged the craft a little higher. "You play by yours, and I by mine. Throw all the clean punches you like; I'll be stacking the deck."

"That seems a mixed metaphor."

There was a rearview mirror of some sort above the front window, for some reason that Layton hadn't yet discovered; with it, Paul gave him one of those sardonic looks he was starting to become so familiar with. "You haven't actually played a lot of poker, have you?"

"I must admit that I have not." He didn't bother mentioning the puzzles. Paul would either laugh at him or berate him, and neither seemed appropriate for a man who was currently piloting an aircraft.

"In the venues we're playing," said Paul, "trust me, you'll need both."

"That much," said Layton, "I have certainly come to realise."

He caught his own reflection in the mirror-- a masked, black-clad version of himself; certainly different from Dimitri's interpretation of an evil future Layton, but he was reminded of the conceit regardless. Had they been more right than they knew?

_The little brat called himself 'Future Luke', didn't he?_

No. The answer to that question, at least, was wholly in his hands. Even if they were growing less orthodox-- he had his rules.

-


End file.
